Brunets Make the Best Lovers
by Zero System Gothica Stage
Summary: Newsies x Gundam Wing crossover. It was a normal day in New York for the newsies...that is, until these weird people with odd hairstyles and strange temperments showed up! (possible slash, in future)


**Disclaimer:** We do not own Newises (Copyrighted to Disney), nor Gundam Wing (copyrighted to Bandai and Sunrise, I believe). No infringement is intended and we are terribly poor, so please don't sue.

**Title:** Brunets Make the Best Lovers

**Authors:** Gothica and Stage

* * *

Dutchy yawned loudly and stretched an arm above his head. He glanced over to where his best friend (and selling partner) was lying beside him. It was a scorching July day, approximately a year and three days after the strike. Not much else had happened since, nothing adventuresome, anyway, and Dutchy and Specs had finished selling early, and had opted for a nap in Central Park. Dutchy hadn't slept very long, but Specs was out. The blond looked over Specs for a moment before his eyes settled on something left behind by a bird. Grinning, Dutchy seized the feather and tickled Specs' nose with it. Specs wriggled and scooted away from the feather. Again, Dutchy tickled Specs' nose, and this time, he swatted at it, grumbling. Once more, Dutchy employed the power of the feather. This time, Specs woke up and glared up at Dutchy, who promptly seized his fedora and took off.

"DUTCHY!" Specs yelped, scrambling up and chasing after the blond. "DUTCHY, COME BACK HERE."

"GOTTA CATCH ME FIRST!" Dutchy replied, dodging picnics and trees alike.

Specs leapt over a picnic basket as Dutchy dodged off to the left, and he temporarily lost sight of Dutchy. Shortly after, there was an unfamiliar yelp and the sound of two bodies colliding. There was a thump, some rustling, and several "ow!"s. Specs hurried around and blinked in surprise. Dutchy was tangled up with another blond, but this one's hair was considerably lighter. Their confused look mirrored each other (as did their eyes, Specs noted dumbly).

There was a menacing, metallic click, and all three pairs of eyes turned towards it (the stranger turning his head awkwardly to do so). Standing a few feet away, was another strange person, with brown bangs that defied all laws of physics, shielding half of his face. He held a small gun and the barrel was pointed at Dutchy.

"Off." He commanded.

Dutchy jumped up and brushed himself off as if he hadn't noticed the gun at all, sticking a hand out for the other blond. "Sorry 'bout that, chum. Didn't see you there at all."

Specs, however, was still eyeing the gun, and the person holding it warily. He grabbed the back of Dutchy's shirt and yanked him in reverse. "Dutch. He doesn't look happy."

The strange blond, who was brushing himself off, turned towards the two newsies, smiling brilliantly. "Oh, don't mind him, he's always like that. I'm Quatre Raberba Winner." Quatre told them, bowing slightly. He waited for either to introduce themselves, but when neither did, Quatre glanced over his shoulder. "Trowa, you're scaring them." He laughed.

Specs didn't really see what was so funny about a loaded gun being pointed at two perfectly innocent (albeit, ignorant) newsboys. After Quatre's words, the one so named Trowa lowered his gun but continued glaring suspiciously at the two newsies, who were staring back in turn.

Specs coughed nervously. "Did we... Did we trespass on your land or something? I mean, I'm sorry if we did..." This was, of course, absolutely ridiculous, as they were in the middle of a public park.

The eyebrow above Trowa's visible eye arched. "I don't own this land." He took a moment and looked around. "Where are we?"

Dutchy choked. "Um, you're in Central Park…in New York…"

"_America_?" Quatre asked, blinking.

"Well…yes."

"Trowa," Quatre turned towards him. "_Now_ what?"

Trowa shrugged. "We find the others." He turned to Specs and Dutchy who seemed to flinch under his gaze. "You two, what did you say your names were again?"

"Uh, we didn't." Dutchy replied. "I'm Dutchy, and this is Specs."

Quatre and Trowa looked at them suspiciously. Well, that's what the two newsboys were assuming when Trowa lifted an eyebrow. Quatre looked like he had on a slightly more expressive version of what Trowa was wearing. Specs was starting to get a headache, trying to figure out how to read their expressions--were they emotionally constipated or something?

Dutchy, however, plowed on ahead. "What?"

"Those are peculiar names." Trowa answered, quietly.

Dutchy scowled. "And I'm sure that there are _plenty_ of people running around with names like Quatre and Trowa!"

Trowa's expression radiated lukewarm surprise, but Quatre was wavering between mild amusement and slight embarrassment. Specs was looking like he was resisting the urge to bang his head on the nearest tree trunk. Was Dutchy trying to get himself _killed_? The man had a gun, for heaven's sake! And with that ridiculous hair, who knew what was going on in his mind... It suddenly occurred to Specs that the two strangers could very well be escapees from the insane asylum. They certainly had the temperaments for it. Well... That brunet one did, anyway.

"Well, Dutchy and Specs, I'm sure what Trowa was getting at is that you two know the city better than us. Perhaps you could help us find the rest of our group?" Quatre smiled again.

Dutchy shrugged. "Sure. We're done selling, anyway."

Trowa blinked (actually, his eye narrowed a little, but it was probably as close as this menacing character got to it). "'Selling'?"

"Yeah. Newspapers. We're newsies."

"Oh."

"Well, this way!" Dutchy directed, starting off.

Specs sighed and jogged after the enthusiastic blond, leaving the two strangers trailing behind them. Quatre chewed his lip in thought, as he walked beside his partner and friend (and he hoped more, but we won't get into that just yet). Trowa put a hand on Quatre's shoulder and turned him slightly.

"You can see the Brooklyn Bridge over there," he told the blond quietly.

Quatre's eyes widened and he grinned. "I've always wanted to see that." He frowned a little. "There's just never been any time to."

"There's time now, and probably later. I don't know what got us here or how to get back, but I get the feeling we might be here for awhile."

Quatre snorted. "Now, if the human race could just hold off on destroying itself for a week or so…"

Trowa laughed softly. "Come on, before we lose our guides. I think it's best if we track down Heero first."

Quatre nodded in agreement. "He'll stick out, what with that clothing of his."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Trowa?"

"Hm?"

"Did you ever learn about newsies?"

"No."

"Me, neither."

"HURRY UP, YOU SLOWPOKES."

Quatre laughed, and pulled Trowa along. "We're coming, Dutchy!"

* * *

Duo blinked. Where the hell was this?

"Hey, mister! You wanna pape, sir?"

He blinked again, confused. Was that boy talking to him? It appeared to be so, as the boy was staring at him rather beseechingly. And because he knew what it like to starve, he decided to have some pity; after all, he was Duo just now... It wouldn't ruin his reputation.

"Sure!" He dug into his pockets and came up with a handful of change, which he stuffed into the boy's hands as the boy stuffed a paper into his.

The boy stared at the money for a minute, then narrowed his eyes. "Hold on a minute... Just a second, now. What are you playin' at, mister? This ain't money!"

Duo blinked again. "Yes, it is."

The newsboy snorted. "It says the year 195 on it! Look, maybe I've never been to school or whatever, but I ain't _that_ stupid. I only look at the date everyday, and it's definitely not 195."

The Gundam pilot (former pilot, now that Gundams didn't exist) scratched his head. Shit, he didn't know where he'd ended up... "What year is this?"

The boy stared. "Why don't you find out for yourself? It's right there on that paper. And after you're done checkin' the year, I'd like either my money or that pape back, please. I've got a livin' to make, ya know."

Duo fidgeted under the gaze of the shabbily (not to mention strangely) dressed stranger in front of him. _Man, this kid could give Heero a run for his money..._ He took a look at the paper in his hand, just to play along. Duo's eyes bugged out. "_1900_?!"

"Well, what year did you think it was? Oh, yeah... 195..." The stranger didn't look amused and chewed on his cigar. "Are ya done now? I'd like that pape back."

"But...but...but..." Duo stumbled, never feeling so unarmed and naked in his entire life. "It's NOT 1900!"

"If it says it on the pape, then it's true, mister." The stranger looked him over. "Are you some kind of wacky preacher or something?"

Duo stared at the kid. "No... Where'd you get that idea from? And you haven't explained how it's _1900 _yet!!!"

The newsboy glared right back at him with a sort of finesse he had never been able to manage. "IT IS BECAUSE IT IS, DAMN IT, NOW STOP WASTIN' MY TIME, PLEASE."

"Unless you're a preacher," the kid added as if in afterthought. "Because in that case, forgive me, Father."

Duo was beginning to wonder if his face was going to stick like this from all the staring he was doing. "I'm _not_ a preacher, you idiot!"

"Then why the hell have you got one of them collars?"

"BECAUSE IT MAKES ME LOOK COOL." Duo paused and sucked in a great big breath. "That, and it's a long story."

The boy looked truly curious for the first time. "Cool? Why the hell would you wanna look cold in the middle of summer? And it doesn't make you look cold, by the way... Is that your way of bummin' money of off poor chaps like me or somethin'?"

Duo turned to the wall. He was severely tempted to bang his head against it till it dented. "I am in heeeeell..."

"Hell? Nah... Just wait a few weeks. And then you'll see what hell's like."

Duo surveyed the boy once more. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Who's askin'?"

Duo sighed. "Duo Maxwell."

The kid raised an eyebrow. "That's some name. I'm Racetrack Higgins."

Duo snorted. "Some name, indeed..."

The two inspected the other for a while longer. Finally, Racetrack spoke again. "You're not from around town, are you?"

"No. No, I'm not. Though I might be. But not today's town."

Racetrack stared. "What...is that some kind of zany preacher talk?"

"I AM NOT A ZANY PREACHER!! GET THAT THROUGH YOUR PEA-SIZED BRAIN!! PLEASE!!"

"Hey! Who you callin' stupid?!"

"Not you, obviously," Duo snapped viciously. "As I don't remember calling anyone 'stupid' at all."

Racetrack huffed. "You're askin' for trouble, mister."

"_Duo_," Duo snapped. "And you'd be wise not to cross Shinigami!"

"Shini-whaty?" Race blinked in confusion.

"THE GOD OF DEATH, YOU BLINKING IDIOT!!"

If people were this stupid in 1900 A.D., he did _not_ want to see 700 B.C.

"What God of Death?" Race demanded. "What kind of crazy place are you from? With a name like Duo and your delusional thinking? Did you escape from the loony bin?"

And all of a sudden, Duo was very tired of screaming at this stranger in the middle of the streets... It was a miracle that they hadn't attracted a crowd. At all. He'd mark one up on his super stealth skills when he got back. _If _he got back.

"I'm from the future."

Racetrack stared at him. Then blinked. And blinked some more. "Yep. You're escaped from the loony bin, all right."

"I'm SERIOUS!" Duo yelped, flailing his arms. "Where I come from, we've got colonies in outer space (even though you guys haven't even landed on the MOON yet) and shuttles that travel between them! Plus, the human race seems bent on destroying each other with all these stupid weapons they keep building..."

"...Now, sir. It's okay... I'm not gonna hurt you... Just tell me where you came from..."

"The L2 colony cluster. It's somewhere near Orion's belt, if you know what that is," he replied acidly.

Racetrack eyed him with disbelief. "Sure it is, Duo…but I really think that it's time for you to go home...the place where stuff's white, ya know?"

Duo ground his teeth and in a very Heero moment, whipped out his gun and leveled it in Racetrack's face. "Shut. Up. You. Stupid. Civilian."

Racetrack felt cold sweat crackling down his neck. The gun made him nervous (because that's what guns do), but his mouth, as always, sped right on past his brain. "A bit on edge, are you?"

_Enamel grinding against more enamel is a strange sensation_, Duo decided. Besides that, there was, of course, the mandatory cursing that seemed to be running more rampantly through his brain as the time went by. Amazingly, his hands stayed level.

"Listen, you. Racetrack Higgins or whatever the fuck you call yourself." He was surprised to hear the very cold, very calm voice; was he talking or was it Heero? That man was definitely rubbing off on him. And not in a way he liked much. "I am from the future. I have a mission to accomplish. Stay out of my way. Do you understand me?"

Racetrack's arms were slightly raised, the universal sign of, "Look! I no have weapon. Hurt me not. Please."

"Perfectly." He replied, eyes fixated on the gun barrel.

Duo took a breath. "Now," he began, intending to threaten the innocent newsboy some more, but he never got to it. Instead his stomach, bent upon ruining any sort of dignity he had left, let loose a eardrum-splitting growl. Duo's tough façade melted, and he held his stomach, pouting. "I'm _hungry_."

Racetrack considered the pouting teen before him (the boy actually looked younger than he did, if such a thing was possible), and decided to play it wise. "I know a good place near here. It's cheap, too." _If you've got any money on you at all..._

Duo's face lit up like a Christmas tree. One of those big ones you saw through shop windows in the winter. Racetrack suddenly found his face being squished into a very well-muscled shoulder.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! I absolutely ADORE you!!"

Racetrack blinked against the black fabric his face was currently stuffed into. What was _with_ this kid? He was holding Racetrack at gunpoint one minute, and hugging him the next at the mention of food!

_Well, that's understandable. _Racetrack told himself. _No one likes to go hungry, after all..._

_But he's _bouncing_? What the hell?!_

Race pushed away the strange Duo. "Er...yeah..."

Duo beamed at him. "Well? Are we going?"

And Racetrack was suddenly reminded of one Brooklyn leader, bouncing around saying, "Where's my name? I wanna see my name!" Shaking off the sudden onslaught of Spot images, Racetrack turned his back on the braided idiot and started off. "This way."

* * *

:D Reviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiew.


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